


Outside My Window

by SunnyRose



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Writer Bilbo Baggins, artist Thorin, life in london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyRose/pseuds/SunnyRose
Summary: Bilbo is a writer who takes to looking out the window of his flat into the courtyard garden for inspiration, and inspiration comes in the form of a handsome jogging artist that he finds himself too scared to do much more than watch him.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	Outside My Window

**Author's Note:**

> First Person POV from Bilbo's perspective.

I had just recently moved into a flat in a tower block sitting on the Thames River. From my window I could see the rising skyscrapers of Canary Wharf reach towards the ever-present clouds. I could watch the airplanes leaving and taking off from the city. I could catch the smallest glimpse of the river that separated me from Greenwich. Mostly, I chose to look out into the courtyard.

The building formed a horseshoe, and in the center of it was a beautiful green garden of bramble bushes, tall and shaped evergreens, square hedges, dots of red pansies, and following the path at the bottom of the U were 3 stone benches. On the rare occasion where London’s weather dissipated into letting the sun reach the earth, I would open my blinds to find my neighbors enjoying a cuppa on their balconies or joggers taking advantage of the safe paths. It filled me with a sense of tranquility that was welcome after an evening of tossing and turning on my lumpy mattress.

There would be days where I would think I would enjoy the atmosphere more if I were apart of it and considered taking my laptop down the stairs and out into the courtyard to rest on the stone bench, my feet in the cool grass. Let the ambiance of the safe nook pull the creative flow from my fingers into the worn and stained keyboard. However, I was perfectly content with propping my window open, perching myself halfway on my bed and windowsill and gazing down from my vantage point, warmed by the window heater.

I don’t think I would have ever adjusted my routine had it not been for him. There was no profound moment of sudden attraction and pining like my romance novels would have led me to believe. He was just there on the jogging track, and my eyes were drawn merely to the fact that his pace was ahead of everyone who normally took part in the systematic cycle, and therefore his deep blue t-shirt pulled at my peripherals more often.

It was after his fifth lap that he walked into the courtyard to cool down and stretch, and I was able to observe more about him. His long dark hair was pulled into a loose bun on his head. He had what appeared to be a two month old beard that was just beginning to curl at the end. His shirt clung tightly to his toned body and despite the brisk temperature for early January, he was wearing shorts as well. White earbuds were present against his skull, and clearly he was enjoying his music if the way he bobbed his head rhythmically was any indication.

Once he seemed to have caught his breath, he took a small drab hunter green backpack, that had been hidden from view from me by one of the trees, over to one of the benches where he sat down and pulled out a drawing pad and some pencils. A small smile crossed my face at the idea that a fellow creative seemed to get the same itch I did from the small garden. I took a sip from my tea watching him in indiscernible intervals. My desire to write tempered by my curiosity and wandering mind. When he seemed to have gotten everything he could from the view, he packed his supplies back up in his backpack and left the courtyard. Simultaneously, I deemed this a good moment to return my cooled mug back to the kitchen and find something more productive with which to occupy my time. All thoughts of the artistic jogger were set aside and forgotten just as all of the people I observe below are.

The next day came and went with the typical London cold and rain as was the pattern for the rest of the week. It wasn’t until the following Sunday, that I was once again able to pull my blinds back and let the sun reach the far corners of my room. I looked down at the quiet garden only to see the jogger from before was back. Only it didn’t appear he had been jogging this time. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a jumper, his hair was down creating a curtain of ink that shielded his work from outsiders. It appeared he had shaved his beard as well as the glimpses I gathered when he lifted his head shone smooth. I would have hardly recognized him at all if it wasn’t for that horrid green backpack at his feet.

I didn’t even bother with a cuppa as I sat down and was absorbed by him at work. I had always been fond of artists with a small touch an envy. The way they weaved fantastical images with their fingers as effortlessly as they did. A good friend of mine, Ori, usually called me out saying it was equivalent to how I was able to mash words into the perfect order to create what he deemed “written art”, but I suppose that was the crux of our world. We would always be impressed and want what the other had.

Just as before, once he seemed satisfied, he packed up his work and went on his way. If I had to pinpoint this moment in time, I believe it was here that my days of people watching in the garden became more narrowly focused.

Back to jogging today, wearing a bright red shirt this time that clashed horrendously with that awful backpack.

He was wearing a handsome grey suit this time, and yet deemed it perfectly acceptable to sit directly on the ground rather than the bench.

He was letting his beard grow back out as the stubble on his face grew darker.

He had gotten a hair cut. It stopped just below his ears now. I mourned the loss.

The next time my artist appeared, the sun was so bright that he tipped his head back and just a touch of a smile crossed his face. I don’t think either of us accomplished what we set out to that day.

I was actually working on a small excerpt from a fantasy novel I had toyed around with the idea of writing. Full of knights and dragons and wizards, but their courage coming from a rather unexpected source when I noticed my artist’s hurried steps into the courtyard below. Just jeans and a t-shirt today, but inspiration had clearly struck him as well as the fevered way he took to pen and paper seemed capable of igniting a small grass fire. A lopsided grin pulled at my mouth as I wondered if I looked the same mere moments ago when the words seemed to be pouring out of me in a tide that almost seemed too quick at times. My hands stilled as I was then pressed to ponder whether he was influenced merely by the sights around him or if images of dragons and wizards called to him as well.

I was immediately struck by an idea for a soulmate universe where a writer and artist are compelled by the same creative idea and must immediately breathe life into it with their respective median having no idea about the other. My previous work was abandoned as the taps of my keyboard seemed relentless in the quiet morning.

It seemed inevitable that he would be made aware of my presence eventually. After all, I had locked gazes with some of my neighbors across the way who also seemed inclined to watch the world of our peaceful garden. I had hoped when it finally would happen that it would have gone more gracefully then what had happened.

I had come back from a shopping spree singing that damn Beach Boy song that was as annoying as it was catchy. It had been playing in the store, and it wasn’t until I was within the privacy of my own walls before I allowed myself to recreate a horribly loud and admittedly off-key rendition of the piece. It was as I was plugging in my phone to rest on the bedside table that I realized I left the window open from the morning. I went over to pull it close, and there was my artist on his stone bench looking up at me with an amused grin.

I froze before waving my hand slightly back and forth. Heat rose to my face. Honestly, I had never acknowledged another person who saw me before, I don’t know why I did now only that it seemed impolite not to. He nodded in return before his eyes drifted back down to his notepad. I took that as my cue to go when I somehow found myself tangled in the curtains before finally falling tearing them down with me. The laughter that echoed from the courtyard sealed my shame that the clumsy act did not go unnoticed. He did have a nice laugh though.

After that, a spark had been lit where we were each acutely aware of the other. Now when he entered the courtyard either to stretch from his jog or draw, he would look up to find me and give a small nod and a smile. I would return the gesture with either a wave or a salute with my cuppa. Sometimes he’d do a funny dance or facial gesture with the intention of getting me to laugh, which worked every time.

One time I thought I would try to get his attention by throwing a paper airplane down to him. I had plenty of practice from my years in primary school where one of my teachers during parents’ night told my mother I was a “cheeky rascal” which I think was the nicest phrase for wiseass he knew. Unfortunately, the wind took my attempt at communication and ground it into the top of one of the evergreen trees. The familiar booming laugh of my artist jarred my ego enough that I would not be satisfied until at least one of them reached him. He tried to reciprocate the gesture, and in the end at least fifty paper airplanes littered the balconies and garden, none coming close to either of us. Something that was equally amusing to the both of us.

Of course, there were still days where I was fueled by a fit of literary passion, and he was enthralled so deeply into his monochromatic world that we simply had no time to acknowledge the other. On days like this, I would think about how I just needed to type out one last thought only to look up and see he was gone. It never failed that the motivation seemed to disappear with him.

It seemed by June, that my friends felt the need to have an intervention in the hope that I at the very least ask him for his name. It was a wonderful daydream. We would exchange names, exchange numbers. He would be everything I was looking for in a potential partner. He would be all I needed to get out and do something that wasn’t going to work or going to Tesco, but deep down I knew that fear latched onto my heart and refused to let it beat too fast at the impossible dream. I feared not being good enough, I feared losing the small morning routine that we had, but mostly I feared being a boyfriend because I had never had to be that for someone before.

So it seemed that I would be doomed to watch the handsome, charming artist from my bedroom window forever when something unexpected happened. It was a rather windy day that day. I don’t know what exactly he was thinking by trying to draw when his hair was clearly blinding him as it danced around erratically. He had finally decided to give up and call it a day when he looked up to me and gave me a smile. I returned the gesture, and in that distraction, the wind ripped his notebook right out of his hand. Pages of illustrations were blowing across the courtyard, and my artist immediately charged after them.

Horror and empathy filled my body, for I could only imagine if my zip drive had been ripped from me. So it was all rather instinctual when I leapt from my position at the window, not caring for the tea quickly staining my floor and sprinted out the door and down the steps to the courtyard. Nevermind that I was barefoot and dressed in pajamas beneath my patchwork robe. While he was gathering up what he could out of the garden, I flung myself against the rail trying to save what I could from a watery death in the Thames. Out of the twelve pages that went over, I was able to save three.

The sound of footsteps reached me as the artist jogged over to my position, and I spun around the apology already posed on my lips as I became aware of my chest heaving. Clearly my soft lifestyle had not prepared my pudgy body for an unprecedented rescue.

“I am so sorry.” I panted. “I tried to save what I could.”

“That’s alright.” He grinned. “Thank you for helping.”

I smiled in return as I reached out to hand him the illustrations that were in my possession. However, months of curiosity couldn’t stop me from gazing down at what it was that incited my artist so. Imagine my surprise when it was my own profile that I saw. My gaze drew sharply back to the man before me. A man who was taller and somehow broader than me despite his lean physique. He avoided my gaze as one hand started to rub his rather pink neck.

“To be honest,” He started. “I had hoped we would meet face to face at some point. I was getting tired of the window blocking my view.”

My eyes flew back down to the drawings in my hands. One of me typing, one of me gazing out into the courtyard, and one of me holding a cuppa with my eyes gently closed. The shine of my glass prison obvious in pencil.

“They’re…all…of me?” I asked trying to decide whether to be creeped out or flattered.

“No, not all. It really hasn’t been until the last couple of months that I started using you as a muse.”

“But why?” I questioned.

His eyes seemed to penetrate my soul in ways that left me shaking. I had never been able to tell what color they were from the distance that separated us, but now I couldn’t figure out how I didn’t know they were so stunningly blue.

“For awhile now, I have looked forward to waking up to the sun when I used to hate getting up early all because I know I get to see you smile on those days. In fact, I’ve tried several times to count floors to get to your apartment only to get lost along the way or end up disturbing your neighbors.”

I chuckled softly at this unaware that the space between us had shrunk.

“My friends have gone back and forth between being pissed off that I only know you as the “Window Bloke” and all but ordering me to find out your name to making bets on whether or not you’re an invalid and that’s why you never come out and join me.”

I thought of my own friends complaints and could understand perfectly. The fear that once encased me was slowly beginning to thaw in the warmth of our shared desires.

“Rest assured, I’m not an invalid. And my name is Bilbo.” I introduced.

“Bilbo.” He repeated. “My name is Thorin.”

He held out his hand, and I shook as the absurdity of the situation came crashing around us, and we both began to laugh outright. I reluctantly handed over the wonderfully accurate drawings to him. It was at that moment that I became very aware that my feet were cold, and I was not exactly dressed. Still I was hesitant to leave now that I finally got a chance to speak to my artist. In a spur of a moment decision, I did the only thing that sounded right.

“Would you like to come up to my flat and join me for some tea, Thorin?”

His eyes softened and his grin widened.

“It would be my pleasure.”

After all, I got to see his drawings of me. It only seemed right that he got a chance to see what I wrote about him.


End file.
